


Ever Yours

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fraught relationship and a smattering of letters. Written for the Shipswap 2014 challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



_London, May 1911._

Thomas sat on his bed fumbling with the pack of letters. His muscles were rigid and he was straining to listen, to keep part of his brain attuned to any sound that might warn of discovery. But there was only William, who was a heavy enough sleeper. That was one piece of luck. Besides, even if he awoke Thomas supposed he could placate him with some excuse. He’d done it before when he’d had close calls.

_“What’s that you’ve got there?”_ William had asked a few months before, when Thomas had been more careless than he should have with a note from a former lover. But Thomas had quickly glared at him.

“A letter from a cousin,” he’d replied curtly. William accepted the lie without question, and Thomas had filed the story away in his brain for future reference. William had no curiosity, however, so he hadn’t pried further. He could be slow and infuriating, but at least he wasn’t terribly threatening.

Thomas turned back to his latest letter. It was, of course, the real reason why Thomas’s face was flushed and warm, and why his heart was knocking against his ribs, though he was lying in his own bed in the familiar attic room of Lord Grantham’s town house.

_May 2 nd, 1911_

_My dear Thomas,_

_I confess your boldness the other night shocked me. I rather shocked myself, too. However, I was not dissatisfied with our encounter, nor was it the first such activity that I have engaged in (as I’m sure you are aware). You needn’t flatter yourself in that respect._

_I should like very much to see you again. You’re not far from my house and you  seemed clever enough. Can you think of some pretext to come here – an errand, perhaps? We might see each other tomorrow._

_Write to me with your plan, when you have one._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Philip._

Their encounter had moved so fast that it had been shocking. But he and the Duke of Crowborough had _connected_. Thomas had seen that familiar nervous hope in the man’s face when their eyes first met. After dinner, when they ran into each other alone in that corridor – well.

It wasn’t the first time Thomas had stolen a touch that made him flush just to remember it. But he’d never had a Duke address him that way before, almost as if they were equals, and as if he had inspired in Crowborough the same passion the man had inspired in him. He supposed he had, for the Duke to write to him so soon after they met.

He looked around. His fingers itched to write back. It had been so long since he’d had a proper lover, and the Duke clearly wanted to hear from him and see him. The thought made his whole body warm with desire. But William was stirring, turning his face toward the light of the candle. Thomas scowled and put it out. He cursed the lack of privacy that meant he must wait until tomorrow, and vowed to wake up before their alarm. That way he’d have plenty of time and plenty of proper light from the skylight.

Thomas sighed. He slipped the letters under his mattress, then lay down. He should think up some excuse to see Crowborough – an errand, as he suggested. Perhaps he would say the Duke had lost a cufflink at dinner, though Carson might wish to see the lost object before Thomas could bring it back to him. That wouldn’t work, then. Still there must be _some_ excuse. _Just think, Thomas…_

He tried to concentrate. But somehow his thoughts darted past the planning stage to their future meeting and the intimacy that would no doubt result. They’d be together long enough to do more than steal a hasty grope and a single, desperate open-mouthed kiss.

_May 4 th, 1911_

_My dear Thomas,_

_As I write this, I hope that I will be able to make the evening post. I see I was right in my assessment of you: you are clever, and your plan is a sensible one. However, I would prefer not to wait as long as that. Can’t you come earlier?_

_Next time I see the family I really must forget something, as you suggested, so you won’t have to lie when you thoughtfully and helpfully bring it to my man._

_Write to me tomorrow morning – and I know I needn’t even say this to someone as clever as you, but for God’s sake keep your errand quiet._

_Yours,_

_Philip._

_May 5 th, 1911_

_My dear Thomas,_

_The things you do are absolutely killing. Thank you for coming to see me last night. It was exquisite._

_When can I see you again?_

_Yours,_

_Philip._

Thomas smiled to himself, alone in his attic room. It was another late night; once again, he was tempting fate, rereading his letters by candlelight and grinning to himself. But having a Duke who loved him – loved him, needed him, thought him _clever_ – was the sort of thing that took getting used to.

***

_May 11 th, 1911_

_My dear Thomas,_

_Thank you for calling on me the other night. I am so sorry that Brown dared to look askance at you. It won’t happen again; I will make sure that we can meet more discreetly next time._

_As it happens, my mother will be going back to the country next week to visit a sick friend. I can give some of the staff a day off and see to it that the rest are out of the way, if you can come. Please tell me that you have a half day coming up again. We might spend a whole day together._

_Ever yours,_

_Philip._

***

He did manage to see Philip when the old Duchess was in the country. They shared a blissful afternoon – one of several they had worked so hard to steal, despite everything.

For the rest of the week Thomas would lie awake at night imagining this encounter and their previous ones– and not just the times they’d spent in bed. He thought of the moments when they talked or laughed or sat in companionable silence that he wished could last forever. If only he could _actually_ relive those times, like a book that he could reread. Sometimes the memories made his stomach twist with longing for more.

But sometimes they warmed him, too, made him smile while he was doing some tedious chore or lying alone in his bed, as he was now.  He closed his eyes. The proud, snide grin on Philip’s face stood out in his mind’s eye in the darkness before him. The last time they were together had been perfect. Thomas had made some cutting remark about a mutual acquaintance of Philip’s and the Crawleys. It was talking out of turn, of course, but Philip had referred to the man first and with even less respect – and it paid off. They’d laughed together like equals.

Then when Philip finished laughing he had looked at Thomas with real tenderness in his eyes, the sort of look Thomas hadn’t had from anyone in ages.

It was only a split second before Philip was laughing, teasing, in control again. But that split second had happened; he had bared his feelings to Thomas – or so Thomas liked to think.

The memory made Thomas feel less alone.

He dreamed about Philip that night. When he woke the next morning he could not keep the smile from his face.

_May 17 th, 1911_

_My dear Thomas,_

_I wish you had written sooner. I must confess that I am rather annoyed with you. Yes, you have your duties, and the danger, to consider, but so do I. Do you really think that your affairs or your reputation are more valuable than my own?_

_However, I am grateful that you are eager to see me again, as you put it. I received your letter before Lord Grantham’s note, so thank you for letting me know in advance about the invitation. I look forward to dining with the family but more importantly I look forward to getting another chance to see you, however briefly it may be._

_Shall I really forget something, as we joked? What do you suggest? You can be the conscientious servant and bring it back to my man without delay, at some odd hour, and then I can thank you in person. I’m sure I can get rid of my man, Anderson, in a way that will not arouse too much suspicion and smuggle you into a disused bedroom of my house. You needn’t worry._

_I trust that I will hear back from you shortly._

_Eagerly awaiting your reply,_

_Philip._

Thomas was smoking by the servant’s door when he read the letter. He scowled at the first paragraph, and wished he could have had Philip with him right then, to give him a piece of his mind.

_Written sooner_ , he thought. He _had_ written as soon as he could – but His Lordship’s valet had taken ill, and Thomas had had to perform his duties as well as his own. When he returned to his room William was sure to be there, with his dull, gratingly pleasant smile and awkward small talk. Thomas couldn’t wake up before their alarm every morning. He’d tried, more times than he should have, and earned a dressing down from Carson after nearly falling asleep at morning prayers two days running. He’d felt like he was thirteen again and back in his first place as hall boy. It wasn’t a feeling that he much cared for.

Thomas exhaled his smoke grimly. He saw the life that Philip and Grantham and all of them lived. _They_ weren’t up at half six cleaning boots and setting tables, clearing tables, cleaning glass and plate and a thousand other things that toffs like them apparently couldn’t do for themselves. It didn’t always leave time to reply to one’s letters right away. Besides, this was a sensitive matter. He’d known lads who’d gone to jail for being like him.

There weren’t quite as many dukes among them, though. Even there, working class lads like Thomas seemed to draw the short straw.

Thomas liked to think that he was becoming a friend to Philip as well as a lover, that Philip was somehow better like that than so many men of his class. Now he saw that liking to think so didn’t make it any truer. He’d been a fool to hope for so much from Philip. Perhaps the man was just as selfish and spoiled as any of them…

He wished he had pen and paper now, while this was all fresh in his mind. Later, perhaps, he’d run up to his room for his writing supplies and write to Philip on his next smoke break.

_May 20 th, 1911_

_My dear Thomas,_

_You needn’t have written your last letter in such an irritated tone. I am fully aware that you have your duties to occupy your time. Do you not imagine that my time is equally valuable? Or that I am as aware as you are of the danger in our situation? Indeed, with my education, and with my position at stake, I am a good deal more aware than I expect you are. You would do well to remember that fact._

_However, I care for you, and I find it difficult to remain annoyed with you for long. I am even prepared to overlook your impertinence and your rather superfluous comments about the law. I forgive you, Thomas, and I must see you again as soon as we can. If I am demanding of your time, or seem heedless of the risks, I think you understand why. _

_Please write to me again as soon as you are able._

_Faithfully yours,_

_Philip._

Thomas sighed as he reread the letter. He’d managed to cling to his anger during the first half of it. Then he read the second half, and imagined the urgency in Philip’s voice as he begged for another meeting. His anger was already dissipating like so much smoke.

Thomas knew he had written back last time when he was in a temper. He’d been more sarcastic than he should have. Maybe he’d actually apologize when he wrote again.

Maybe he wasn’t as clever as he liked to think. Philip was so spoiled, like a selfish child half the time, and yet – and yet, when things were good, they were incredible. He was charming, polished, appreciative, _some_ of the time _._ And where was Thomas going to find another man like that?

(He folded the letter and thought. He could almost see the rare, kind smile on Philip’s face when he woke up from dozing, or the gleam in Philip’s eyes when he was about to make some vicious joke. Thomas remembered Philip rolling his eyes when talking about the old Duchess’s invalid friend – remembered Philip, flushed with alcohol, spilling the wine they were sharing and laughing about it –Philip actually tying him to the bedpost with the tie from a dressing gown and buggering him until Thomas could do nothing but make little whimpering sounds…)

Thomas’s face grew warm. There was no way he was giving that up – any of it. He’d write back whatever he needed to smooth things over, and spend his next half day with Philip.

_May 23rd, 1911_

_My dear Thomas,_

_Have I told you lately that you’re absolutely killing? I know it must be foolish to write such thoughts down, but I trust you and I want to thank you for calling on me last night._

_It also occurred to me that I might get rid of Anderson. You could be a valet, couldn’t you? Anderson is so slow and so tedious sometimes. He annoys me, and it struck me that I might take you on instead._

_I know you probably have friends among the other staff at D-. But this way, we could be together all the time, and no one would suspect anything amiss. Think about it._

_When can I see you again?_

_Ever yours,_

_Philip._

_May 24th, 1911_

_Dear Thomas,_

_I thought you might like my little idea. I must find some pretext to replace Anderson – something that Mother and Brown, our butler, will believe without question. It should only be a matter of time before we can be together every day, my dearest._

_Please write back to tell me when we can meet again._

_Yours,_

_Philip._

“What’s that you’ve got there?” O’Brien asked, leaning against the wall beside Thomas. “You look just like the cat that ate the canary. I can’t imagine why…”

Thomas glanced sideways at her and slipped the letters back into his pocket, quickly. It was becoming something of a routine for him: reread Philip’s latest correspondence during his smoke breaks, and cherish the words throughout the day, practically repeating the phrases in his head while he worked.

He bit his lip, wary.

“Just a note from a friend,” he said. He hoped his tone would brook no further questions.

He should have known better. O’Brien continued to stare at him with that thoughtful, knowing look in her eyes. It was one thing when she studied someone else like that – some object of mutual scorn they could parse over together – but when it was Thomas himself, well, that was quite different.

“Which friend might that be?” she asked, casually. “William says you’ve been keeping up quite the correspondence lately.”

Thomas turned his head to stare down at his lighter, and lit another cigarette.

“Does he, now?”

O’Brien shrugged. “You needn’t get so angry. I wouldn’t do anything to _you_ , even if I did know your little secret – there’d be no one else to talk to around here.”

“Thanks,” Thomas said, with a shrug. For a moment he was tempted to take her at her word. The news was too good _not_ to share, no matter how incriminating it was. He opened his mouth to speak and felt the smile pulling at mouth again. Then he forced himself to stop, before he said too much.

***

Then the letters grew less frequent, though Thomas was dutiful about writing back quickly even when he had to wake before his alarm or sneak writing supplies out on his breaks.

Perhaps he let himself get too fiery in one or two of his responses. Those roused Philip – which was better than no response at all – but things weren’t right. Philip wasn’t begging to see Thomas as he had been. He even dared write that Anderson was a good and dutiful servant, and that he could not throw the man over just yet – not when his mother was so fond of him and when he had served the family for so long.

Thomas supposed Philip had found someone new. The Duke of Crowborough could go anywhere, meet anyone – while Thomas was stuck polishing silver and blacking boots for one master or another.

The season dragged on. His mood was blacker than it had been in a long time. He had no patience for William’s earnest, eager questions or Carson’s pompous sermons, though his temper earned him several of those.

Eventually he gave up trying to write to Philip. He told himself that his former lover was a flighty, spoiled, selfish bastard and not worth the time of day. Let him _keep_ his old fool of a valet if he was so great – or to placate his mother. Let him find some rent boy he could trust with his secrets and his heart, too…

***

_July 3 rd, 1911_

_My dearest Thomas:_

_I am so very sorry that the last letters between us were so terse. I did not know what to say; my pride and my anger made it difficult for me to apologize or to confide in you. Then I was called away to France, to look after some investments my father made in some tedious business scheme, and I swear I did not have time to write. I missed (and continue to miss) you terribly, however, and so I resolved to write back as soon as I was in England again._

_As you see, I can keep my promises. I am sorry that our relationship has been so fraught with misunderstandings and with talking at cross-purposes. Please write back to me. I am determined to do better at being truthful, without letting my pride get in my way, and at keeping promises. The last few weeks without you have been terrible – more terrible even than the days we had to go without seeing one another in London, because I do not know if you are still in the City or, if not, when we may see each other again._

_Humbly yours,_

_Philip_

***

The season was finally over. Thomas was back at Downton when he received that particular letter, which took longer than he would have liked to get relayed from His Lordship’s London address.

As soon as he’d read it he found himself worrying about the delay. _He might think I don’t care – that I don’t want to pick up with him again…_

He caught himself thinking that and shook his head. It was the same soppy nonsense he’d tried to burn out of his besotted brain by nursing his anger. Thomas didn’t usually think himself a fool, but he _must_ be one, to have that floating, weightless feeling rising in his stomach now, despite everything.

Their relationship had been fraught by more than just misunderstandings and cross-purposes. They weren’t good for each other, was what the problem was. _But if he’s humbling himself for_ me _– if he wants so much for me to write back…_

One of the bells in the servants’ hall began to ring. Thomas heard it through the half-open door and frowned. He took another deep drag on his cigarette, then threw it to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel. He should get some more work done and think a bit longer before deciding what to do about Philip’s latest letter.

But of course, in his hearts of hearts, he knew that good or not, he’d be writing back – signing up for the whole mess once again – before the day was out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta readers ALittleWhosThis and Gonergone for help with this piece . I hope this is what you wanted, recip, and that you have yourself a happy Shipswap.


End file.
